


Pole Position

by Apathy



Category: Dissidia Duodecim: Final Fantasy, Dissidia: Final Fantasy
Genre: Camping, Humour, M/M, Unrequited Lust, comedy incest, godawful
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2013-09-02
Packaged: 2017-12-25 09:58:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Apathy/pseuds/Apathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the midst of a storm, Golbez pitches a tent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pole Position

**Author's Note:**

  * For [saltedpin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltedpin/gifts).



> This was written a couple of years back, and was born out of a conversation that was (very loosely) inspired by a piece of fanart in which Golbez uses his cape to shield Cecil from the rain. The art is lovely; the fic is decidedly not.
> 
> All blame goes to saltedpin.

Golbez tries to hold back an annoyed sigh. It's getting dark, the terrain's starting to get difficult, there's no sign of that idiot dragoon, and -- oh, joy of joys -- it's starting to rain.

He senses Cecil stiffen slightly beside him. As much as Cecil likes to act as if his hair will always remain an ethereal cloud of wafty perfection, no matter how much duress it gets placed under, Golbez knows that the slightest hint of moisture will render it an uncontrollable frizz come morning, which will lead to no end of fussing and fretting from Cecil.

Moon hair has never been great at handling humidity, which is why Golbez can't understand why Cecil insists on wearing his loose so often on this forsaken world. Better to be inscrutably masculine, and just stuff it all under some huge horned helmet all the time.

As if on cue, Cecil's hands go up to his hair. Rolling his eyes, Golbez lifts his cape up and over Cecil's head.

'We should make camp,' he grunts. 'We're never going to find that accursed dragoon in these conditions.'

It's a weak reason to stop -- a few drops of measly rain should not be a deterrent to the two finest warriors the moon has to offer -- but he knows that Cecil is grateful for the excuse. And, quite frankly, so is he. Golbez just isn't in the mood for fighting Kain tonight -- such a thing he had not thought possible, but apparently it is.

He strides purposefully towards the most suitable-looking place he can see in the fading light -- a flat patch of ground that doesn't look like it would be in imminent danger of flooding if the rain gets too heavy. He clears the small rocks away with one foot, balancing on the other while his becaped arm hovers dutifully above Cecil, who is removing his armour.

It is at this point that Golbez realises two things: first, that they brought absolutely no protection from the elements with them; and second, that Cecil is rapidly becoming more naked.

The first item can be explained away by his not even thinking about the possibility of rain -- why would he even consider such a stupid meteorological phenomenon? -- or plain dumb machismo. Or maybe it's just that all thought of practicalities had evaporated from his head once he found out that Kain was nearby, never mind that he actually has no idea what he will do to or with Kain once he finds him.

But it's the other thing that horrifies and appals him -- his brother standing there in all his semi-naked glory, completely indifferent to the effect that he is having as he happily strips down to his undergarments.

Of course, they have seen each other naked many times before, but always in a different context -- never the two of them alone in the middle of nowhere, with Cecil's skin shining like the moon.

_Like the moon_ , he thinks miserably, as homesickness punches him cheerfully in the guts.

His heart is full of guilt and longing. Why has he been cursed to have such a beautiful brother? Everyone has always told him that Cecil is one hot piece of ass, but he had never really understood what they meant until now.

He clears his throat awkwardly as a certain hardness rears its ugly head in his pants. It's been so long since this has happened -- not counting that one time when he stumbled across Exdeath watering himself -- that it takes him a moment to realise what it is.

Golbez goes rigid with shame, and tries to think of the most hideous things possible -- Gabranth in a dog collar; Chaos jerking off four of his comrades simultaneously; Kain in general -- but it's no use, the pressure growing more insistent.

What is this reprehensible illness that has struck him down so swiftly? Never before has he seen Cecil in such a way, but now -- with Cecil so luminescent and ethereal and glistening in the sparse drops of rain that have made it past Golbez's makeshift barrier -- Golbez cannot help but have terrible, impure thoughts.

As he stares studiously out into the gloom, eyes straight ahead and not at all trying to sneak a sideways glance, Golbez comes to a realisation of just how much of an idiot he is. The trees here are all sturdy and strong, with thick, solid branches that look like they'd be almost impossible to break off -- no good at all for constructing some sort of refuge from the rain. Cecil would probably go all big-eyed and lip-quivery if he tried, anyway, spouting some nonsense about trees having souls, too.

How is he supposed to protect Cecil from the elements if he can't even find something to build a rudimentary shelter out of? Cecil's self-esteem will be destroyed once he awakens in the morning to discover that his hair is ruined forever.

Golbez shakes his head in disgust. It's one thing for him to he having filthy, lustful thoughts about his brother, but it's another thing entirely to have promised his brother a shelter, and then have nothing to erect it with. What kind of older brother is he if he can't even protect Cecil from the rain?

What can he do? How will he keep Cecil safe from the elements -- if not for the sake of protecting such a precious creature, then for the sake of not having to listen to the bitching in the morning?

All seems lost, when an idea strikes him. A terrible, awful, perfect idea.

'Brother, how are we going to stay dry?' Cecil looks up at him with wide, innocent eyes. So pure. So trusting.

Golbez sets his jaw. He must be strong, and do the right and honourable thing by his brother.

He removes his codpiece, and his aching wang springs free of its armoured prison, jutting and bouncing slightly into the cold night air.

Cecil's eyes go even wider, if possible. 'What do you plan to do with that, brother?' So innocent. If he knew the thoughts bounding across the plains of Golbez's mind... well, he'd probably still be looking at him with the same trusting gaze. The boy's always been a bit thick when it comes to this kind of thing, really.

Golbez wonders if it's healthy for a person to come to hate themselves this much in such a short span of time.

'Lie down,' he says gruffly. Cecil tilts his head quizzically but does so, taking care to lie on the least dirty patch of dirt he can find.

Golbez follows him down, trying to keep his cape up in a protective position while lowering himself to the ground and removing his helmet and pauldrons.

This is not going to be as easy as he thought.

He drapes one side of the cape over his brother; then, huffing and fumbling, he tucks the edges in under Cecil's side and around his head and feet, trying not to think about how incredibly fucking awkward it is whenever his dick bounces off Cecil's face.

Cecil, for his part, is lying very still, although whether it's due to paralysing terror or complete indifference, Golbez has no idea.

Sitting next to Cecil, Golbez attempts to tuck the other side of the cape around his own legs, then around his upper body as he lies down.

It's a struggle -- the cape barely stretches far enough, and Golbez is suddenly glad he'd had it tailored in an extra-huge size, because anything less would have been useless -- but eventually he manages.

They're completely enclosed, and his magnificent dick makes the perfect tentpole, standing proud and keeping the cape off their faces.

He feels a small stab of triumph amidst the crushing humiliation and painfully throbbing crotch. Ha, he'd like to see that puny limpdick Garland try to pull off the same feat!

He can't see Cecil's face, but he can feel him positively beaming. 'Brother! How resourceful! What a sacrifice you have made for my comfort in such a terrible storm!'

'Oh, it's nothing. Hardly something a man would find a hardship, am I right?' His laugh sounds strained, even to him.

'But to maintain it all night!' Cecil's voice positively radiates younger-sibling admiration. 'If there's ever some way I can do something in turn to help you -- '

'Ha. Ha. The only way anyone could help me would be to give me a bit of relief, once the night is over.'

Cecil's laugh is like the tinkling of tiny bells. 'Oh, that's a good joke, brother! You almost had me going for a moment, there.'

'Yes. Hilarious. I'm not considered the funny one in the family for nothing.'

Golbez mouths the worst profanities he knows, and some he just made up, at the tent ceiling mere inches from his face. He will probably either suffocate or drown, depending on how well the tent holds out... if he doesn't die of blue balls first. Any mode of death would be preferable to having to wake up in the morning, at this point.

He remembers that Cecil usually sleeps for at least ten hours at a time. At _least_.

Golbez wonders if the things he's heard about getting permanent damage if you keep it up too long are true. He twitches, waging an internal battle over whether or not he should bring the topic up again.

'Well, good night, brother,' Cecil chirps, rolling on his side away from Golbez as much as the setup will allow. He promptly starts snoring gently, his rear pressed into Golbez's pelvis.

Golbez stares thoughtfully into the cloying darkness, and listens to the patters of rain just beyond the tip of his nose. He is honestly not sure what to think right now. Stabbing himself in the crotch comes to mind.

Maybe this will work if he takes it as a challenge -- a quest he must not fail. He has been charged with maintaining perfect mastery of his mind, body, and spirit, refraining from excess in both desire and indifference, both of which would be detrimental to his goal of maintaining a rigid structure to protect his brother from the elements.

Instead, he must maintain a perfect middle path of self-control and enlightenment. No arousing thoughts of his brother, his warm skin pressed closely into his side, his heartbeat bleeding into his skin; no thoughts, either, of that irritating esper, who must be the biggest boner kill this side of the Elven Snowfields; and certainly no thoughts of a naked and reclining Kefka, which, if he's honest, could easily fit into either (or both) of those categories. Is he that shade of deathly white _everywhere_ \-- ?

The tent shudders a little, and Golbez quickly turns his thoughts back to the middle path. He must be disciplined. He must be the great warrior that he knows himself to be, and keep it up for the greater good.

Cecil tries to roll away from him, but his bulk firmly holds the cape in place, leaving him to roll impotently against the tent's edge. Golbez sighs and shifts a little, carefully, so that Cecil can finish adjusting himself.

The rain falls down. The tent -- such as it is -- gets stuffier. Hours pass -- or is it minutes? Cecil flails and mumbles and wriggles in his sleep. Golbez's hand creeps towards his cock when it needs some encouragement to keep going, and sometimes when it doesn't. The situation turns him on so badly, which drives his self-hatred, which turns him on some more.

Would it really be so terrible to blow his load? Cecil would probably sleep right through it anyway, and Golbez doubts that he'd be savvy enough to work out what the mess was in the morning.

He's going to do it. He's horny and he doesn't care. He's going to have the most spectacular orgasm in the history of existence, and then maybe he'll finally be able to get some sleep –

There's a presence outside. There's no crunch of twigs or skittling of pebbles to give it away; he just knows there's someone nearby. 

He lies there, and tries not to breathe. Because he doesn't want to give himself away; because he wants to pass out and die; really, there are so many reasons.

The person outside bends down next to his head. They're not hiding their presence anymore. And suddenly, Golbez knows. Oh God, he _knows_.

The cape is abruptly untucked from around his head, and Golbez finds himself staring up through the rain at a dull purple blur.

'....' the dull purple blur says.

'....' Golbez replies.

The dragoon continues staring at him. His silence asks a million questions, and passes a million judgements. His line of sight moves slowly and deliberately towards the bulge protruding further down the tent, resting there for several seconds, before coming back to meet Golbez's eyes.

Golbez stares at him defiantly. 'It's picking up moon transmissions.'

Kain remains absolutely still. A long pause drags out.

'It's very important that I listen to them, and you're disrupting the signal.' He tilts his head suddenly. 'Oh, what's that? They're saying that Kain Highwind is a meddling, traitorous incompetent, who can only get it up when he's in the company of another man's wife. Oh, and that he smells like a privy.'

The silence stretches out. Highwind's face is inscrutable, damn that stupid helmet. Rain spatters into Golbez's eyes. It really stings, damn it all. Makes it kind of hard to have a staring match with an eyeless freak.

His cock suddenly spasms, and it takes a moment for his brain to process -- oh God, he's _turned on_ by this. As in, going to come if he doesn't do something to calm himself down. He stares frantically into the eyes on the dragoon's helmet, trying to keep his composure.

'Gngh,' he says.

Cecil, for his part, chooses this moment to roll towards him and throw an arm across his abdomen. Golbez's legs twitch wildly, and his mind races without coherent thought while his hands clench and inch towards his cock. He may actually explode, and he's not sure he cares, because it will be totally worth it --

After one last long stare for good measure, Highwind turns and leaves as silently as he came, not even bothering to look over his shoulder.

'Angh,' says Golbez, tucking his head back under the cape.

'You're the best big brother in the world,' murmurs Cecil, before falling back into a gentle snore.

Golbez wonders where he went wrong in life.

***

Daylight glimmers on the horizon through a slivered break in the clouds, barely visible through the dark material of the cape. The glimmer becomes a glow, and then daylight. Daylight becomes a dull noon through the never-ending curtain of cold, miserable rain.

_Like my heart_ , thinks Golbez wretchedly. _Or my dick._

He's not sure if it will ever feel anything but pain again. It's settled into a horrendous, detached semi-numbness that he doesn't want to think about.

Also, he really, _really_ needs to piss.

Eventually, Cecil wakes up -- not with a whimper, but with a bang. He sits bolt upright, arms outstretched, and the sudden movement is enough to rip the cape out from underneath them, sending the pools of water it collected during the night cascading down upon both of them.

Cecil blinks, his hair rapidly plastering to his face in the rain. 'Good morning!'

Golbez stares. His mouth opens and closes like a fish. Words will not come to him.

Cecil slaps a good-natured palm to his forehead as he takes in his sudden sodden state. 'How silly I am!' he laughs. 'Oh, well. Nothing we can do about it now.'

He looks over at Golbez, then at his poor, abused penis. His brow furrows in confusion. 'What -- you really kept that going all night? I thought for sure I'd wake up to find out that our tent had collapsed overnight. Or that you'd given in, and rubbed one off.' Cecil laughs merrily as he tosses his wet locks, still somehow alluring and perfect in the rain.

Golbez can feel his erection start to slowly, painfully subside. He doesn't know what he feels anymore. He can't even think. A yawn splits his face before he can even register that he is completely exhausted.

Cecil leans towards him, concerned. 'Why, brother, if I'd known that you needed some help relaxing so that you could sleep, I would have gladly obliged. I thought you were joking when you suggested it -- I mean, you _were_ laughing.'

Golbez's neck creaks as he slowly turns towards Cecil in disbelief.

Cecil shrugs. 'What are brothers for, if not to help one another? It's not like it would have meant anything untoward. Ha! Imagine that.'

Golbez slowly lowers himself back down, uncaring of the mud he finds himself lying in. No point in trying to track Kain now; if he never sees that idiot again, it will be too soon.

Cecil checks out his reflection in a piece of armour, holding another one behind his head so he can look at his hair from all angles. 'I must say, I don't mind this look at all! Time for a change, maybe. What do you think, brother?'

Golbez groans, his eyelids starting to flutter shut. No, definitely not going to go look for the dragoon, with his stupid tight-fitting armour, and his stupid long, pointy lance that he grasps with such dexterous fingers, and his stupid ridiculous thigh muscles -- 

Cecil's voice, floating somewhere above him, is anxious. 'Are you still having trouble getting it to go down, brother? I could lend you some assistance, if you like.'

Defeated, Golbez closes his eyes and cries.


End file.
